


The Art of Courting

by paperpenpal



Series: Snow Lions [2]
Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: ...does Ingrid have siblings? Because if she does...they aren’t in this, Alternate Alternate Title: How To Deal With Post-War Feelings while Romancing Your Best Friend, Alternate Title: How To Romance a Galatea, Can be read as a stand-alone despite being part of a series, F/M, Friends to Lovers, No Beta, Post War, Spoilers, post blue lions, this turned into a Sylvain character study by accident
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-17
Updated: 2019-11-09
Packaged: 2020-12-20 23:17:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,909
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21064835
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/paperpenpal/pseuds/paperpenpal
Summary: “Do you intend to court my daughter?”The Count’s words almost make him physically rear back away from the table, and if it weren’t for the fact that he was rendered momentarily speechless he’d probably sputter something deeply stupid that he’d seriously regret.Sylvain has never intended to court before.  Not in the way Ingrid’s father means, not with the intention of marriage.He’s also never courted anyone the way everyone else means - with romance and affection in hopes of something deep and real.  He just-  Sylvain never courts.  He woos and charms with the intention of some fun and if that fun happened to ruin his reputation - well, what did that matter to him?But, with Ingrid on his mind and the something warm and light he’s started to feel when she’s around in his chest, Sylvain can’t help the terrifying desire to try.The look Count Galatea gives him is unmovable and unchanging, under it Sylvain knows that there is no trying, there is only doing.Sylvain finds his voice.“Yes.”  He says, “I do.”





	1. The Art of Starting

Winter in Galatea is warmer than Sylvain’s used to. That isn’t to say that they aren’t cold. No, Sylvain can still see every one of the breaths he puffs out and still shivers when a particularly cold breeze brushes across his face but it isn’t the frigid frostbitingly freezing winters that hole you up in a sitting room feeding the fireplace he’s known further north at home.

He actually thinks its quite pleasant.

It hasn’t even snowed here yet, which is a nice change from the blizzards that would sometimes barrel through Gautier territory.

It’d be nice if he could stay through the winter. He knows it’s a big ask, especially since he’s pretty sure he’s long since overstayed his welcome here but he’s taking advantage of his position as the heir of Gautier to hold out a little longer. The Count would never throw him out to trek through the dangerous Faerghus winters without a good reason, not unless he wants to look inhospitable and, more importantly, Ingrid hasn’t asked him to leave.

It’s kind of a mutually beneficial half-unspoken arrangement. Her father can’t invite her suitors over if he’s here, or well- the Count could, he just wouldn’t as it would be very very odd, and Sylvain wouldn’t have to go home.

He’s lucky that way. Lucky in the way that Dimitri, who inherited a Kingdom, Felix who inherited a duty, and Ingrid who inherited a responsibility, aren’t.

Sylvain has lost very little in all this in comparison. It makes him feel...

He hasn’t quite worked out how he feels about all of this.

Maybe he just feels a little young, despite being the eldest of his friends, maybe he feels like he doesn’t know what he’s supposed to be or what he’s supposed to do.

He was given a duty as a solider. He knows his worth as a solider. But soldiers are soldiers until a war ends, without one, they are just men.

Sylvain has always been someone who works better when someone leads him. It is why he follows Dimitri, why he listens to Ingrid, and why he fights alongside Felix. It is why, despite his distaste for Crests and nobility, he was never strong enough to truly entertain the thought of abandoning it. It is why he never did anything for Miklan except learn to hate him.

He has never been good at making decisions that aren’t easy or almost entirely selfish.

Even this is selfish.

He’s here, staying with Ingrid, because he does not want to go home and he can pretend it’s for her. And if that means she can’t get married yet, then great, because the thought of her getting married to someone she doesn’t know-to someone she doesn’t want, makes his gut twist in an uncomfortable way, and an annoyance too close to rage bubble near to the surface of his skin.

He used to tell himself it was empathy that made him feel this way and perhaps that was true once upon a time but now he’s more and more sure that it’s because he’s not ready for the world to move on. He wasn’t ready to leave Dimitri in Fhirdiad, he wasn’t ready to watch Felix mount his horse and take off, and he certainly isn’t ready to go home.

And- well, he’s also pretty sure he doesn’t want to let Ingrid go.

—

Ingrid finds him in the stables, tending to the horses. She had been surprised by it the first time she had seen him clearing the stables for a house that he didn’t live in but now it’s usually the first place she looks when she seeks him out.

Sylvain will never say this to her but one of the reasons why he prefers it here over the manor is the chores. It’s a weird thing to say but he actually sort of enjoys the act of chopping up firewood for the house and bonding with the steeds when feeding them. It’s a far cry from the lazy days in the monastery when he used to try to pawn off weapon checking to Felix or laze about in the kitchens staring at dishes until someone, usually Annette, would sub in for him. But it’s one of the things that make him feel like he’s still useful.

He doesn’t think her father knows, or, if he does, the Count has never said anything to him. It would be in poor form for the guest to assist in the daily duties of the house but Galatea does not employ enough workers to keep them properly afloat, especially with deep winter on the horizon and an extra mouth to feed, so if Ingrid’s father does know, maybe he has chosen not to acknowledge it for fear that Sylvain would stop.

“Thought I’d find you here.” She says. Ingrid is dressed in her traveling clothes, simple and thick. Entirely functional. You wouldn’t guess her stature from the way she wears it, casually leaning her weight against her left side with a hand on her hip and you wouldn’t guess her battle commendations either, were it not for the sword hanging off of her side.

She looks relaxed. It’s a good look on her.

Sylvain is learning to get used to it.

“Need me for something?” he asks, turning to face her.

“I was going to head into town to pick a few things up. I was wondering if you wanted to come. You haven’t really spent much time off the property.”

He feels a grin stretch across his face. “Are you asking me out on a date?”

Ingrid rolls her eyes, but, curiously, a slow pink begins to dust her cheeks and Sylvain finds himself hoping that it isn’t just from the cold. “Sylvain,” she almost scolds. “Are you coming or what?”

“Yeah,” he says. “Sorry, let me just get the saddles.”

They ready their steeds together. He almost makes a cheeky comment about sharing one but the image of Ingrid wrapping her arms around him almost makes his thoughts stutter and she’s already on her mount by the time his head regains its balance.

It’s a weird thing that keeps happening more and more frequently. Sylvain- he’s not an idiot, he has an idea why. Ingrid is someone he trusts unconditionally who also happens to be beautiful but she’s also very very complicated. He doesn’t want to think about it too hard lest his tongue trip up too.

It’s happened once, in the monastery. He was trying to say something nice, trying to tell her - well he’s not entirely sure what he was trying to tell her since he couldn’t say a single thing right that day and then he proceeded to avoid being alone with her for fear it would happen again. It was easy to shove it away. They had a lot of other things to worry about. The war was just one thing after another, almost none of them any good. Even their victories felt hollow and darkened with loss and Sylvain just didn’t have any time to think about or contemplate what it means to find her so beautiful. He didn’t have the mental or emotional capacity to handle more than one thought at a time and the next thing he knew, he was staring down the city of Enbarr.

But Enbarr is over now, a horrible memory that becomes more and more distant with each passing moment. Now he shoves the thoughts away on purpose and finds it harder and harder to find excuses for it.

“No Luin?” he asks her when he mounts. He is not used to her without a lance.

Ingrid gives him an odd look. “It’s too big,” she says. “And the war is over.”

He thinks about his own relic, propped up unceremoniously against the wall by his bed in the guest room and nods, “Right,” he says. “The war is over.”

—

The trot into town is actually quite pleasant. Sylvain has never spent that much time in Galatea. He’s never had a reason to. Their childhoods only really overlapped when they were in Fhirdiad or on two occasions in Freldarius, but never here.

Ingrid leads the way and sets the pace and he’s struck by how easy this is. It has been a long time since leisurely and he can’t remember the last time he’s mounted a steed that didn’t have him charging into battle.

He feels light and it’s not just because there is no armor strapped to his back or a lance at his side.

That doesn’t mean they are without caution though. Ingrid’s sword is within a half a second of reach and she had handed him an axe to strap to his side just to be safe.

The town itself is small and untouched by battle. It is nothing like the ruined streets of the capital where the smell of blood still lingers in the air. They dismount and decide to take to the streets by foot. No one really pays them any mind. The lack of attention isn’t something he’s used to but it is something he finds refreshing.

“What do we have to pick up?” he asks.

“I wanted to stock up on a few medicines for the winter just in case,” she tells him as they fall into step next to each other. “Then I thought we’d walk around a bit, there’s not much to see but it’s good to get out of the house.”

“Sounds good, lead the way.”

The shop is a tiny little thing by the roadside with a crooked sign and a bell on the door. It is not at all like the easily constructible merchant stalls in Garreg Mach nor is it like the large spacious well-stocked shops in Fhirdiad. It is a cramped space with shelves packed to the brim with random bits and bobbles. It does not seem like a place for medicines.

An aging grey-haired woman with her hair pulled back into a messy bun behind the counter beams when they walk in. “Lady Galatea!” She says as she scrambles to move towards them.

Ingrid flushes. “Please Mari,” she says, stepping further into the shop to meet the woman halfway. “How many times do I have to tell you to call me Ingrid.”

“Oh, you know I can’t do that.”

The woman - Mari seems to notice him from where he stands behind Ingrid now and Ingrid tries to sidestep in the cramped aisle to give him a little more space. “This is-“ she starts.

“Sylvain,” he finishes for her. He gives Mari a bow. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

Mari leads them both back to the counter and Sylvain stays silent as he watches the two women talk animatedly and familiarly with each other. It is so different from the way he is usually addressed when he goes into town and the way that most of the noble-commoner encounters he’s witnessed are.

They speak like old friends, catching up on life and asking about each other’s families. Ingrid knows all of Mari’s children by name. It is such a small thing and he’s not even sure why he notices it but it makes him smile all the same.

It is refreshing and warm and all Ingrid.

He cannot stop looking at her.

“She loves you,” he says when they exit the shop fifteen minutes later, a parcel stowed away in her bag.

Ingrid, for once, seems slightly embarrassed. “I’ve just known her forever.”

“Or you’re just really lovable.”

Ingrid ignores him. He knows she’s probably rolling her eyes.

“Do you go into town to pick up things a lot?” he asks when she doesn’t respond.

“I do it when I can. I like coming into town. It gives me something to do.”

Sylvain hums and thinks about his own adventures into the town surrounding the manor. They were never for errands. He wonders where he would take Ingrid if given the chance. Probably nowhere he used to frequent. He frowns at the thought.

Ingrid, sharp as ever, notices. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” he says too quickly.

She eyes him suspiciously.

“I was just-“ He struggles for an excuse but making up a lie is too taxing and not worth the effort so he settles on the truth. n“I was just wondering where I would take you if you ever ended up in Gautier territory.”

“Oh.” She seems surprised.

There’s a moment between them where neither say anything as if they were waiting for the other to respond. It’s brief but noticeable enough for it to feel awkward for him.

Ingrid collects herself first when he doesn’t elaborate. “Well, where would you take me?”

He considers the question and what he knows of Ingrid and what he knows about town. He hasn’t been there in a long time and wonders if any of it still stands. “I’m not sure, that’s why I’m wondering.”

Ingrid furrows her brow. “Cop out.”

“What?” He says, amused.

“Your answer,” she clarifies. “It’s a cop out.”

“It is not a cop out. It’s the truth.”

“Well, where do you usually go when you head into town?”

“Uh-“ Places where he knows women will be, he almost says but doesn’t. That comment is a one-way road to Ingrid smacking or scolding him. He actually did use to enjoy that banter between the two of them but now it leaves a bad taste in his mouth.

She catches what’s unsaid in his hesitation and lightly smacks his arm anyway. “Nevermind,” she says. “I don’t want to know.”

“Well,” he considers his words carefully. “We can still find other places to go. New places. Better places.”

Ingrid glances at him for a second, catching his eye, he feels a sudden and strong compulsion to wring his hands together but instead pulls them both back to hug the back of his head as casually as he can.

“Hmm.” She hums. His blood pressure spikes. “That sounds...nice.”

Something warm blossoms in his chest. He can’t help the grin that stretches across his face.

—

Ingrid’s father summons him later that day.

Sylvain’s not really sure what it’s about. He and the Count hardly ever interact, apart from the occasional meals they all take together, and those conversations are always awkward and stilted, apart from the first night he had arrived when he had Felix as a buffer but now it’s just him, Ingrid and the Count. It is his least favorite part of being here.

Ingrid tries to get them out of it as much as possible but he feels bad about stealing her away from her father. He knows he’s imposing but he also knows he doesn’t want to leave.

But maybe the Count has finally had enough and is ready to kick Sylvain out. It had to happen at some point although Sylvain’s pretty sure that the man would never do so explicitly. He would instead find a clever way to manipulate him away, perhaps even in conjunction with his own father, or he would ask Ingrid to do it.

He finds himself in the man’s office, sitting across from him.

Ingrid’s father always seems serious and stern with an air of confidence that he uses to carry his pride. He never betrays his houses’ troubles, even when everyone knows of it, and always acts as a noble should, despite - or perhaps, because of - his circumstances. Sylvain can’t help but respect him, even when he hates how the man pushes for Ingrid to solve his troubles.

The Count stares him down, Sylvain feels that he should not look away, or else lose a game he doesn’t know how to play.

“Do you intend to court my daughter?”

The Count’s words almost make him physically rear back away from the table, and if it weren’t for the fact that he was rendered momentarily speechless he’d probably sputter something deeply stupid that he’d seriously regret.

Sylvain has never intended to court before. Not in the way Ingrid’s father means, not with the intention of marriage.

He’s also never courted anyone the way everyone else means - with romance and affection in hopes of something deep and real. He just- Sylvain never courts. He woos and charms with the intention of some fun and if that fun happened to ruin his reputation - well, what did that matter to him?

But, with Ingrid on his mind and the something warm and light he’s started to feel when she’s around in his chest, Sylvain can’t help the terrifying desire to try.

The look Count Galatea gives him is unmovable and unchanging. Under it, Sylvain knows that there is no trying, there is only doing.

Sylvain finds his voice.

“Yes,” he says. “I do.”

Ingrid’s father does not seem surprised by his answer, nor does he seem particularly pleased, but Sylvain does not look away, even when a part of him wants to. He keeps the older man’s gaze head-on with as much conviction as he can possibly muster.

Finally, Ingrid’s father gives the slightest nod, not in approval, Sylvain knows, but in acknowledgement. It is the best Sylvain is going to get.

Some of the tension in his shoulders, but not the room, releases, and Sylvain wonders if he’s about to be dismissed.

The room is silent. The Count breaks it.

“Good luck.”


	2. The Art of Flirting

Sylvain finds himself lying in his bed, staring up at the ceiling wracking his brain for an idea of how to court Ingrid.

So far, he's come up with absolutely nothing.

His well-practiced charm won't work on her. Ingrid isn't someone to be swayed by flattery and she is especially not someone who would be swayed by his flattery. He knows this because he's tried and the best he's ever gotten out of it is an eye-roll.

It actually used to be a lot of fun, trying to get a reaction out of her, and by the end of it, Ingrid had gotten just as good at maneuvering out of his lines as he was at giving them. He liked trying to find ways to try to catch her off guard.

Still, everything he said was always true, even when he was being playful. It’s just that it was said so easily that she never believed him and he never bothered to get her to. Now it’s difficult to give her a compliment that she doesn’t side-eye first.

So no, lines and flattery will never work on Ingrid, not until he can convince her of his honesty and he can't quite walk back the last ten years of playful flirtation, nor does he really want to, even if it makes him seem insincere.

He could try a gift, but Ingrid is a very practical person. She doesn't tend to like or keep what she doesn't strictly need. She'd also never accept anything too expensive or extravagant. Her pride would never allow it.

The only thing he can think to give her that she might appreciate would be flowers but it's winter and everything's dead and even if it wasn't, he'd never paid enough attention to figure out what she'd like.

He could try appealing to her stomach, but while a romantic home-cooked dinner is a nice idea, he's not a particularly proficient cook and a pound of beef jerky from the market doesn't exactly scream "please marry me!"

Goddess. Marriage. That's what this is all about in the end, isn't it? Or at least, that's what it'll lead to if he's lucky.

Sylvain presses his palms to his eyes and lets out an audible frustrated groan.

He doesn't regret his decision, even if it was made a bit hastily, and he doesn't regret that he's vocalized it to Count Galatea but he does regret the fact that neither he nor Ingrid ever had the luxury of time.

They were only granted time through distractions. First, it was the Officer's Academy and then a full-blown awful bloody war.

But now, Sylvain is twenty-four, and he's not only thinking about the rest of his life but he's thinking about the rest of his life with Ingrid.  
He wishes, not for the first time, that they had been less bound by their statuses. Perhaps, in another world, they could have explored their relationship at their own pace.

Their relationship...he thinks about it like they're already in one when the truth is, Ingrid has yet to –

A thought occurs to him then, a question so terrifying that it causes his body to rocket straight up from where he lies on the bed.

Does she know? Did her father tell her? He had fled the office so quickly that he hadn't even thought to ask her father to keep it the whole matter quiet.

And then,

Would she be angry at him?

Because isn't he just another suitor? Waiting to take her agency away from her?

He's so preoccupied with the way his mind begins to spiral that he almost misses the knock at the door.

Her timing is absolutely uncanny.

"Sylvain?" she calls, voice muffled from the other side.

She does not sound angry. That's something.

"Yeah! One sec!" he croaks, voice higher than he had intended it to be.

He rises quickly from the bed and then promptly trips over his feet and practically face-plants straight onto the floorboards with a loud bang.

"Ow," he groans.

He's never been particularly clumsy so this is just embarrassing. He's glad that there's a door between them so he can save a little face.

It swings open.

Ingrid's expression changes quite quickly from the initial alarm he managed to catch to the instantly bemused.

"You okay?" Her eyebrow is raised and an arm is on her hip but he can tell that she's trying to suppress a grin.

"Yep," he says, flopping over onto his back to stare back up at the ceiling. He puts a hand to his forehead dramatically. "Only thing that hurts is my pride."

"You have too much of it anyway," she jokes. "Can I come in?"

He lazily waves her in. "You've already opened the door."

"I was worried!" she defends, closing the door as she enters the room. He expects her to offer a hand and pull him up like she usually does when he finds himself on the ground after a training bout but, instead, she surprises him by tucking her feet behind her to sit next to him. "And I knocked first!”

"No, I know." He grins. "I don't actually care Ingrid. You know I always want you around."

It's out of his mouth before he even thinks to stop it. For all the worrying that he'd been doing a minute ago, talking to Ingrid does feel easy, so long as he doesn't overthink it, but it feels a little bit like flattery again. He hopes she doesn't take it that way. He doesn't know how to get her to believe him.

The words are easy but the fluttering aftermath in his heart makes him swallow hard. He chances a glance at her from where he lies on the floor.

She's looking straight at him and against the glow of the waning winter light from the window that streaks into the room, he remembers that she is beautiful.

"Sylvain," she says, and usually, when she says his name, it's a warning, but this time, Goddess, this time, it's so soft and gentle and it does something to his heart that makes him want to hold her in his arms and never let go. "I know. It's the same for me."

He almost jumps up then, almost pulls her against him. It's an impulse so strong and urgent that the only thing that can tame the swelling in his chest is to place his hand on hers.

They’ve held hands before. Typically, it’s when one is leading the other somewhere. Sometimes they do it for reassurance or comfort but those tend to be brief, with quickly retracting hands lest they linger for a moment too long. Ingrid never flips her palm over, never laces her fingers with his, until now.

She doesn’t even seem to notice what she’s doing or how it’s different. She doesn’t seem to notice the way his breath catches in his throat or the way he marvels at how their hands fit together like this.

"Heard my father called you to his office today,” she says, and the features on her face that were soft a moment ago seem tenser, she waits for his reply, even though she did not ask a question.

He takes in a slow breath. “Yeah,” he confirms. It feels weird to talk about this with her lying down, so he pulls himself to sit cross-legged in front of her where he can face her head-on. He does not let go of her hand.

“What was it about?”

He considers his words carefully. He does not want to say the wrong thing or even the right thing the wrong way. All the worries that he had before she walked into the room emerge onto the forefront of his mind. He’s trying to think of a way to phrase it that doesn’t have her pulling back from him, that keeps her hand in his.

He takes too long.

“Did he ask you to leave?” she says, and her voice is no longer soft nor gentle, it is sharp and brisk, the kind of tone she typically takes when she witnesses an injustice.

“No,” he tells her quickly, squeezing her hand.

“Oh,” she seems surprised, her shoulders, which he did not realize had tensed, relax. Ingrid looks down at their hands. He watches curiously as her eyes widen as if she had only just noticed the way they’re joined together, but she does not let go and she does not pull away.

He knows she’s about to press again but his eyes dart to a small bundle of envelopes she has resting at her side that he could not see from his angle lying down earlier and uses it as an excuse.

“What’s that?” he asks, nodding his head towards the letters.

“Oh, just a few letters,” she says, her gaze following his, other hand brushing the letter on top.

“Well, I know that,” he tells her. She shoots him an annoyed look that he ignores. “I meant, who are they from? Anyone, I know?”

“One from each of my brothers.” She uses her free hand to spread the envelopes out, reading the addresses. “There’s one from Annette, one from Mercedes, one from Felix, and one from the Royal Palace.”

“From Dimitri?” Sylvain hopes.

“I think it’s from Ashe,” she says. “Although Dimitri and Dedue usually send their regards through him.”

He nods. It’s not surprising but still disappointing to not hear from Dimitri himself. The newly crowned King is too busy with putting the continent back together to pen letters to old friends. He’s glad they’re still getting news from the capital though.

Ingrid hands him one of the envelopes. “This one’s for you.”

It’s from Felix.

Felix, who only knows Sylvain’s in Galatea because the three of them came here together. Felix, who Sylvain let ride off on his own towards his empty home in Freldarius when he could no longer delay his duties because there was no one left to do them.

Ingrid had been angry at him for it. She might still be. He had been a little angry at himself for it.

When the three of them first left Dimitri in Fhirdiad, Felix and Sylvain were supposed to travel to their homes together, but then they watched Ingrid fly south alone, and there wasn’t really even a discussion. They followed her.

Felix hadn’t stayed long. He did not have the same luxury that Sylvain had to hide away from his responsibilities. His own father was healthy and capable but Felix had no one, except an uncle he did not trust to piece his territory back together. He could no longer continue to run away. He was not like Sylvain. Felix was always going to go back, no matter how much he grumbled about chivalry and responsibility. The trek to Galatea had just been a stall, a time to collect himself, a desperate attempt to take a little more time to be a little more ready. He just didn’t have the same amount of time that Sylvain does.

But, now, sitting here, in the middle of the cold floor of a guest bedroom with Ingrid, Sylvain realizes that he is done with stalling. He is no longer running away from his life, instead, he is trying to run towards something. It just so happened that that something would not be found in Gautier. It is right here in this room, holding his hand.

“You’re not going to read it?” she asks, breaking him out of his thoughts.

“Later.” He puts the letter aside. “I kind of…just want to talk to you like this for a bit. Is that okay?”

Ingrid gives him a confused look. “Yeah, of course.” Then she adds, “you know you don’t have to ask right?”

“I just don’t want to do anything you don’t want to do.”

Ingrid’s face softens again. He needs to make note of how and when that happens so that he can keep doing it. “Thanks,” she says quietly, tucking a stray strand behind her ear. “That’s…thanks.”

The hand that holds his is warm but not as warm as the smile that slowly stretches across her face.

-

The letter that Felix sent him is barely a letter.

_Sylvain, _

_Still in Galatea? How long are you planning to stay? _

Sylvain pens a response that’s just as short and just as sweet.

_As long as she lets me._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Turns out the best way to flirt with Ingrid is to hold her hand. Although, the beef jerky might still work.
> 
> This did not go the way I intended it to. Sylvain is a tricky guy.


	3. The Art of Falling

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a bad habit of stealth editing after I post something. Nothing major but small bits here and there sometimes to help with the pace.  
Also typos. I fix a lot of typos.

Sylvain spends the next week trying to figure out ways he can get Ingrid to hold his hand again. Thankfully, being one of the few people in the house means that he has ample opportunities to try. He tries for any excuse to touch her, a squeeze on the shoulder when she’s too focused on reading to acknowledge him, a brush of their hands when they walk, a firm grip on her elbow that lingers longer than it normally would when he hauls her up on the few occasions he manages to knock her down while they’re training. When he’s feeling particularly brave, he tries not to let go.

Ingrid doesn’t pull away anymore.

When they were younger, when it was playful, she used to bat him off, but now, when he’s lucky, she’ll bring a hand up to his, resting on her shoulder, and squeeze back, or walk a little closer, or let his hand slide down from her elbow to her hand, allowing them to brush before they return to their stances.

The way she lets him linger leaves a pleasant warmth where they last touch that spreads directly to his chest and burns for hours after the fact. It’s a warmth only tainted by the fact that he has yet to approach Ingrid to talk to her about the conversation he had with her father.

He’s just…waiting for the right moment. The timing always seems off and he can’t figure out how to phrase it in a way that doesn’t offend her or cause her to think that the whole thing is just a convenience.

He has to put the words together and tell her that this is not about marriage, even though it involves one, it is about something more.

Because he does not want her to misunderstand. It would be easy to, especially considering that they have entertained the thought once upon a time in her dorm room as she vented her frustrations at yet another attempted arrangement from her father.

It had been casual and easily dismissed. He had half-seriously asked her from where he sat straddling her desk chair facing her, “Why don’t you just marry me?” and was promptly met with a pillowcase in his face.

“Don’t joke about that,” she had glared from where she sat on the bed, her legs dangling off it. “It’s not funny.”

“No seriously,” he remembers saying, taking the pillowcase in his hand, as the idea formed in his head. “I mean, I’m from a noble family-a _really_ noble family- and I think your father would approve-“

“I don’t know if I approve,” she interrupted sharply, quick to stop his train of thought. She had picked up another pillowcase and set it across her lap, readying it in case he said something else she deemed stupid enough to warrant another throw.

“Ouch, my heart!” He laughed. “But really Ingrid, if it ever came to that-“

“You don’t even want to get married!” She erupted, throwing her hands in the air, but she hadn’t actually been angry, just keen on cutting off whatever he was going to say and probably very exasperated.

“Do _you?_”

“Well no but-“

“So, we get married. It’s a win-win for both of us. Let’s announce the engagement at dinner.”

He was only saved from a second pillow to the face by using the first one as a shield.

“How’s _that_ a win?”

“Your house gets what it needs and I marry my best friend instead of a stranger.”

Her pointed glare disappears, melting into something close to consideration, chewing the thought over before definitively shaking her head. “No, it’d never work.”

“What?” It was starting to make a lot of sense to him, to the point where began to wonder why he hadn’t thought about it before. “Why?”

“Because I don’t want to spend the rest of my life picking up after you.”

“Ah, face it Ingrid, you’ll be doing that anyway. You love me too much.”

He really should have seen the third pillow coming. At least it was softer this time.

“Come on,” she had told him, rising from the bed to brush off her uniform skirt. “I’m hungry, let’s go to the dining hall.”

They never talked about it after that.

He hadn’t really been serious but he wasn’t really joking either. He had offered it as an out, because, while it wasn’t a proposal and while he hadn’t wanted to get married at all, he would have done it if she asked him.

He would still do it if that’s what she wants. But, now, it is not what he wants. He does not want a marriage because it’s easy and he does not want a marriage because it's convenient. He wants to marry Ingrid because he wants to chase the warmth that blossoms throughout his body when she smiles.

He just needs to find a way to tell her that.

-

Letters start coming for him now that there’s an actual semi-formal arrangement to him sticking around. Technically, Ingrid's father didn't explicitly invite him to stay, but the implication that he is now a guest of the house instead of just a guest of Ingrid’s was made with one very awkward and stilted passing conversation in the hallway so now all of Sylvain's letters are forwarded to Galatea.

It's a statement to the world without saying anything. If Ingrid has noticed or knows, she hasn't said a thing to him.

He’s got more than a month and a half of letters to sort through. Most of them are from his old schoolmates. Annette’s increasingly annoyed letters berating him for his lack of correspondence are particularly funny to read and he’s happy to see that everyone seems to be moving forward and towards something. He’s happy that he can almost write back that he’s starting to too. He no longer feels like he’s falling behind or wishing for time to slow or stop. He’s one of the oldest out of the group but he’s always felt that he was the furthest behind. They all had a conviction that he did not and that he never wanted to find. He just didn’t see a point in chasing a future he cannot have. All he wanted was to have some fun for as long as he could before he was married off, inheriting a responsibility that he was never suited for.

He never thought that he’d find his conviction here, in Galatea, his heart in the hands of a girl he’s known forever.

He’s in the middle of penning responses to his friends when he hears a knock on his doorframe. He keeps the door open now, even though there’s a cold winter draft, in hopes of catching sight of Ingrid passing by.

He looks up to see Ingrid wrapped in a well worn but thick winter house robe holding a small bundle of envelopes in her hands.

“_More?_” he asks, incredulous, he still has a giant stack on his borrowed desk that he has barely sorted through.

“Well, what do you expect when you run off without telling anyone?” she says, obviously amused. She enters the room to add to the stack. “How goes the replying?”

“Slow.” He puts his pen down, flexing his fingers, he feels like he’s been doing this for hours. “I’m taking them one person at a time, and I’m only sending one letter to each person. I can’t be expected to respond to every single letter can I?”

“That is the most efficient way to do it,” she agrees, leaning next to him against the desk, arms crossed. “But just make sure your replies are thoughtful. You might want to send a long one to Annette though.”

He runs a hand through his hair. “Goddess, _Annette,_” he groans, flopping his face on his desk dramatically. “I think you’re a bad influence on her. She’s definitely channeling you with her scolding.”

Ingrid flicks him on the forehead.

“Ow!”

“She’s just worried about you.”

“Well, you’ve been writing her, why didn’t you just tell her I was here?”

“We don’t talk about you,” she says. “And besides, I kind of figured that you didn’t want anyone to know.”

She’s not wrong but she’s not entirely right either. It was more like, he didn’t want to acknowledge that the world was moving on, and he didn’t want rumors to swirl around more than necessary while he was trying to figure out how to sort himself out. But he also didn’t plan on staying as long as he did, he just also didn’t exactly plan on leaving either.

He doesn’t really know how to respond to that so he sits back up and changes the subject instead.

“I feel kind of bad that you’re always grabbing my post. Did you get any?”

She nods and pulls out two envelopes from the pocket of her robes. “From my brothers, the others probably haven’t had time to write yet.”

“You talk to them a lot.”

She gives him an odd look. “They’re my brothers,” she says.

An image of Miklan flashes through his mind, an image he quickly shoves away.

Ingrid must notice because her face suddenly turns sad and guilty. “Oh Sylvain-“

“No.” He stops her, placing a hand on her elbow, and ignores the way it tingles from the contact. “It’s okay. How are your brothers? I never asked.”

She looks at him for a second, as if she was studying his face to see if he was truly okay. “They’re good,” she finally says, and he feels a wave of relief course through him when she doesn’t push him. “They’re at the border. They’re helping with the rebuilding. I wish…I wish I could help too.”

He sees it clearly in his mind. Ingrid, halfway-up a ladder he helps hold, spitting nails from her mouth, a hammer in her hand, hair tied up, and wiping the sweat from her brow with her sleeves as she helps rebuild the world after it fell apart.

This is the Ingrid he sees every time he looks at her. Determined and reliable, with a strong sense to do good with her own hands. This is the Ingrid that he admires. The one that makes him want to do better. Not the one that paces up and down the house looking around for things to do.

“Why aren’t you?”

Ingrid sighs, her demeanor melancholic, she does not look at him, instead, she looks out towards his small guest room, staring at an empty wall. “You know why,” she says quietly. And the way she says it, so quiet and sad, makes something in his chest twist, like a vise-grip clamped on his heart.

“We should do it anyway,” he says, suddenly determined, halfway out of his seat. “Let’s go right now.”

Ingrid laughs, the twisting in his chest loosens at the sound, but only a bit, “It’s a nice thought.” She says, pushing him back down into his chair, and he sits even though he itches to take her where she wants to be. There’s a small smile on her face that still seems sad but final, and he lets himself relax a bit. Her hand does not leave his shoulder, instead, it squeezes, and it eases the agitation that pricks under the surface of his skin.

“But first,” she says, and she turns to grab the top letter from the stack. “You have to get through these.”

“Don’t remind me,” he groans, taking it from her, his eyes dart to the address. “This can’t be good.”

Ingrid gives him a questioning glance.

“It’s from my mother,” he explains.

“You had to know it was coming.”

“That doesn’t mean I’m ready for it.”

He flips the envelope over, and stares at the wax seal with his crest on it, and breaks it.

Something tumbles out of the envelope, something small but heavy, judging by the way it clanks onto the ground under his chair, rolling towards Ingrid’s feet. Ingrid almost doesn’t notice, she’s busy with her own envelope, but when Sylvain catches sight of the object, a shock of adrenaline shoots through his body and he immediately dives for it, nearly landing on her shoes. He keeps his hand over it, hoping Ingrid didn’t see.

He stares up at her, she has a single eyebrow raised.

“Uh-“ he starts, but doesn’t finish.

Ingrid waits for a response but when none comes, she simply returns to her letter.

Sylvain breathes out slowly and waits for the panic to melt away before picking it up and turning it over in his hand when he’s sure that Ingrid isn’t looking.

It’s a silver band with a single stone, his crest engraved within it.

His mother’s engagement ring.


	4. An Act of Honesty

The ring burns a hole in his pocket. It’s like a lead weight that he carries with him everywhere he goes. When he talks to Ingrid, he’s so distracted by it that he can barely string a sentence together and he’s so terrified it may fall out during training that he stops joining her. He can’t leave it in the room because, although he knows that no one would rifle through his things, he doesn’t want to risk someone finding it or taking it.

It throws him and the easy routine he had settled into off and it means that he’s now avoiding Ingrid when he can.

It’s stupid, he knows, and she definitely notices. She can’t not notice when they’re practically the only people in the house.

He hates this. He hates that just when he feels like he knows what he’s doing, just when he feels like he has time, something always comes to remind him that he doesn’t.

He needs to talk to her.

He still doesn’t know how.

But it doesn’t matter because she absolutely cannot find out from someone else.

So now, two-days post ring, he finds himself at her bedroom door, his hand halfway raised to knock after half an hour of trying to gather enough courage to rap his hand against the dark wood. His other hand toys with the ring, fingering it in his jacket pocket.

As always, something else spurns his actions. The door tears open and Ingrid nearly slams into him, halting just before she knocks into his chest. The look on her face is blazing.

“Hey,” he tries.

She crosses her arms and says nothing.

_Damn, _ he thinks, _she's definitely angry._

He could make up an excuse, could say something about how busy he’s been trying to deal with those letters but that would be a lie and he doesn’t want to lie to Ingrid.

She’d see through it anyway.

“Well?” she says when he still hasn’t found the words.

The winter light from the window hits her, framing her entire body in a way that simply steals his breath away, the softness of the glow a strong contrast to the sharpness in her eyes and Sylvain can’t help the way his tongue gets caught in his mouth, unable to form the words he needs to say.

He’s never had this problem before. He’s always been able to just talk, to breeze through conversations and to take whatever comes at him with ease. But he’s also never been terrified before like this, he’s never been terrified of saying the wrong thing because it’s never mattered before.

“Um.” He ends up saying.

Ingrid huffs and tries to shove past him, but he takes up most of the door frame they’re standing in, “Wait!” he cries, much more desperate than he means it to be, grabbing her. He catches her elbow, the force of the opposing directions lurches her forward and then rubberbands her back and it takes her a full second to stop. When she does, she shoots him a furious glare but does not shake him off.

He realizes, a moment too late, that he’s effectively trapping her in her room. The hand he uses to grip her burns in an unpleasant way so he quickly lets go and steps aside, “I mean- I just – Sorry,” he starts, hands up in surrender. He shouldn’t have grabbed her like that. “Can we talk?”

Ingrid just looks at him. Her expression doesn’t change. It’s an expression that he doesn’t know how to read and it dries up his mouth and drops his heart. She’s been angry at him before but it’s never felt quite like this. She has never gone silent.

Sylvain does stupid things all the time but usually, when Ingrid’s angry, she’s lecturing him about being reckless or scolding him for flirting too much. She’s usually defending someone else. This time she’s defending herself.

Finally, after several seconds of sizing him up, with a little breath he almost doesn't catch, she takes several steps back further into the center of her small room, glare still fixed on her face.

He steps forward but lingers at door, staring at it.

“Just close it Sylvain,” she snaps. “It’s fine.”

He does, turning fully away from her as he closes it with a soft click. He takes the moment to gather himself. Looking Ingrid feels a bit like he’s staring into the sun, so blindingly bright and brilliant, but impossible to hold a gaze. He can't think when she’s glaring at him like that.

“I’m sorry,” he tries again when he turns around. He wants to step towards her but doesn’t, the space between them feels bigger than the room itself. “For avoiding you.”

Ingrid stares for a second. He watches the way her fingers grip harder on her biceps from where her arms are still crossed. “I just don’t get it Sylvain. One minute you’re-you’re“ She pauses, looking for the right word.

Sylvain freezes.

“You’re there,” she settles for. “Like right there, and the next you’re avoiding me. Did I do something wrong?”

“What?” he shakes his head vehemently. “No! Of course not.”

“Then what is it? Because-”

With a panicked jolt, Sylvain realizes that Ingrid looks like she might be holding back tears and that he’s the one who caused them.

She’s not just angry, he realizes, she’s hurt.

“-it’s confusing!”

It takes a moment for the words to catch up to his head and even then, he can't quite process what they could mean.

“I’m sorry,” he says again.

“Stop.” Her tone is sharp. “Stop apologizing. Especially since I’m not even sure what you’re sorry for.”

Sylvain sucks in a breath. It’s true. There might be a lot of context that Ingrid is missing. She can read him well but she can’t read his mind or his heart.

“You didn’t do anything wrong.” He takes tentative steps towards her. “I’m not avoiding you because of you, I’m avoiding you because-well because- Goddess, it’s so stupid. I’m avoiding you because I’m an idiot and I don’t know how to do anything else. And I’m sorry because it obviously hurt you and I’m sorry for a few other things too.”

Ingrid quickly swipes at one of her eyes and uncrosses her arms. Sylvain finds himself standing in front of her, just barely out of reach.

“What other things?” she asks, still angry.

“For confusing you,” He says. “I didn’t mean to confuse you. I just-Ingrid, I…”

The words die in the air. His heart is in his ears, drumming across the entirety of his body. It’s so loud he can hear nothing else and can barely focus on her. The best he can do is look at her hands. The ones he desperately wants to hold, if only to center him.

He needs to tell her about the conversation with her father. She should know that first.

But then she says his name, and it’s barely a whisper. It draws his eyes up, and he sees, in her face for the first time, a whirling mess of fear and anxiety that mirror his own, but also the steadfast determination that he’s always admired.

“Please,” Ingrid's voice is quiet but steady. “If you don’t- if you’re going to leave, just tell me.”

He seizes both her hands and holds them in his own. She grips back. That act alone gives him back his voice. “I’m not going to leave Ingrid. I never want to leave. Not unless you want me to.”

“Then why-?”

“I love you,” he says firmly. Finally.

He breathes again and watches as she stops. Her body stills, the breath she was halfway through catches in her chest, her eyes, still a storm, widen. Sylvain swallows, tightens the grip on both her hands, and cuts her off when she opens her mouth to speak.

“But I need to tell you something.”

Her eyebrows furrow, Sylvain takes a single step back but does not let go of her hands, with a breath he starts. “Your father, he asked me if I intended on courting you.”

Ingrid stays silent, her expression does not change, Sylvain barrels on. “And I said yes.”

He waits.

He expects her to surprised or angry, expects her to let go of his hand, expects her to say something. He does not expect her to be patient and quiet. Perhaps he should have.

“And I did it without asking you.”

Ingrid’s expression shifts slightly, the softness that was framing her body finally reaches her face, but still she says nothing.

“And I should have,” he's speaking quickly now because, suddenly, there’s so much to say, so much to explain. “I should have talked to you first. I don’t want to be-Ingrid I don’t want to be like everyone else. I don’t want to take your choices away from you. I want to-“

“Sylvain,” she says, finally interrupting, there’s a lightness in her voice that was not there earlier alongside a hint of an exasperation he knows quite well. “I know.”

“-What?”

“I know,” she says again. “I’ve known.”

He’s dumbstruck, the words in his head suddenly crumble apart. “H-How?”

“I asked.”

“You mean I’ve been fumbling with this in my head for a week and a half and you’ve known the entire time?!”

“Not the entire time and, honestly,” Ingrid’s gaze shifts away from his, looking at their feet, her voice a little smaller. “I thought you were just trying to find an excuse to stay a little longer.”

“Ingrid-“

“That’s why I didn’t say anything. I thought-I don’t know.” Now _she's_ the one speaking fast. There’s a light flush on her face that he finds incredibly endearing as he’s trying to process the words that tumble out of her mouth. “I thought it wasn’t worth talking about. And when you didn’t say anything…I mean, it’s not like it really means anything, it’s not like we’re engaged–“

“Do you want to be?”

Her head snaps up.

“-What?”

Her eyes are blazing again but there is no swirling mess of emotions in them anymore, instead there’s surprise, yes, but warmth too. It is what propels him on.

“Ingrid," And he's amazed that his voice doesn't waver, doesn't shake like the way his hands would if she wasn't holding them. "I wasn’t trying to find an excuse to stay longer. The reason I said what I said to your father is because I want to marry you.”

“Sylvain-“

“And the reason I didn’t tell you is because I couldn’t figure out how to say it in a way that made that clear.”

She lets go of their hands and for a moment he is utterly petrified, afraid that he has overstepped and soared over every boundary between them that he can no longer properly define but then she brings her fingers up to cup the sides of his face and pulls his head down to rest against her forehead. “You’re doing a pretty good job of it right now.”

He can feel her breath on his lips, an inch away.

“Am I?” He barely breathes.

She doesn’t answer, instead, she shuts her eyes and closes the distance. The kiss is soft and easy, her hands slide from his face to his neck where they wrap around him, his finds her waist, holding them in place. The warmth that he’d been chasing settles across his entire body and although it is sweet and chaste, Sylvain feels full and alive and like there’s no where else in the world he can even dream of wanting to be other than in her arms.

When she pulls back, he doesn’t chase her lips, even though he wants to, instead, he breathes her in, brings a hand to brush the side of her cheek, and hears a soft whisper,

“Ask me.”

Sylvain untangles from her, and takes a few steps back so that he can see her. It almost makes him laugh when a flash of something that looks like disappointment shows on her face so he holds out one of his hands, offering it to her.

She takes it.

He reaches into his pocket with his free hand and fumbles out the ring. His hand trembles as he holds it between his fingers.

Ingrid’s eyes go wide, darting back and forth between the ring and his face, “Where’d you get that?”

“It’s my mother’s – well," he shrugs, an attempt at casual, "yours if you want it.”

“You still haven’t asked.”

“You still haven’t told me how you feel.”

“Really?”

“Ingrid, come on.” His voice is a little desperate, the hand that holds the ring is still shaking and now it’s starting to become a lot more noticeable. He’s doing everything he can not to drop it. “I’m dying over here.”

Ingrid steps closer and brings up her free hand to stabilize his shaking one. The ring glimmers between his fingers, so close to hers.

“I thought I made it pretty clear when I kissed you.” Her eyes are shinning. he’s pretty sure his are too.

“You can kiss someone without it meaning anything.”

“_You_ can maybe.”

“Not anymore.”

Ingrid gives him a breathless laugh. “You’re so much better at this than I am.”

"Better at what?”

“Saying things like that. It seems to come easily.”

“Are you kidding?” He asks, incredulous. “Do you not remember the part where I avoided you for two days?"

"No, I didn't forget," she tells him wryly. "I was talking about your lines."

"It wasn't a line!"

"It was a line." Her tone is definitive but her smile is soft, "But I guess it's my turn now isn't it?"

The air shifts. Sylvain holds his breath. His heart pounds in his ears again and if it wasn't for the fact that Ingrid was holding him still, his knees would probably drop out from under him.

"I love you," she tells him.

The warmth he feels from her words is different than the one he felt when they kissed. The kiss had been soft and sweet, like every other touch of theirs but amplified. It had made him feel warm and safe and like the world was right and would always be right so long as he was with her. The words though, the words set him aflame. It's an adrenaline shot to his body and everything in him buzzes. He feels like he could run from one end of Fodlan to the other and back again and again, straight towards her. He knows now, in this moment, that he is ruined for joy because nothing could possibly measure up to what he feels from the simple confession that leaves her mouth.

He had known, he would be stupid not to know at this point in their conversation, that she felt _something_ for him but he hadn't dared to hope for this.

"Ingrid," he starts, and all the floating feelings and wordless thoughts that have been halfway forming in his head finally solidify. "I love you. I'm in love with you and I want to spend my life with you. Whether it's here, having awkward dinners with your father, at the border rebuilding alongside your brothers, in Gautier as the lady of the house, or hell, Fhirdiad with a lance beside Dimitri- I don't care. It doesn't matter to me, I just want to be with you wherever you want to be, in whatever way you want me. I’m just hoping that that way happens to be the one with this on your finger."

Sylvain takes a deep breath, he finds that cannot look at her, he doesn’t know how one can look into the sun.

“Will you marry me?" he asks, voice hoarse but steady, eyes fixed on the ring that he holds out to her.

Ingrid’s hands caress his face, guiding his gaze towards her. She looks him directly in the eyes and refuses to let him look away. Hers are shinning and bright and full of fire, "Yes."

The ring slides effortlessly onto her finger. Later, he will wonder at how it fits so well but right now he can only pull her against his chest, bury his face into her golden hair and hope to never let her go.

The sunlight from outside continues to seep into the room but the brightest thing in the world will always be her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic was originally quite a bit different. I had planned it to have alternating chapters from Ingrid's POV as well but then Sylvain kind of took over and I really wanted to explore him a bit more in-depth. 
> 
> This chapter also went through a few iterations, including not having Sylvain's cheesy proposal speech near the end but I felt that having Sylvain vocalize the things that have been stewing in his head was important, even if it's a bit heavy handed. In addition to that, I really wanted to make it clear that Sylvain does not want to take away Ingrid's choices as that’s important to me, even if I think Ingrid might already know that.
> 
> Anyway, I hope you enjoyed it! Thank you everyone for your support! I really appreciate you taking the time to read this far!


	5. Epilogue: The Art of Figuring it Out

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Surprise epilogue!  
I just felt like there might be a little more I could try and squeeze out of this.  
Turns out, it’s just fluff. This is nothing but fluff and self-indulgence.

There's a crick in Sylvain's neck from the way he's been leaning towards the papers in front of him on the borrowed desk in the guest bedroom. The words are a blur on the page, his hands are covered in ink due to his carelessness and the more letters he writes the messier his handwriting becomes. Poor Ashe hardly ends up with anything coherent by the end of the chicken scratched note and Sylvain knows that he owes it to his friend to write a new proper one later. 

Outside, snow has finally settled across Galatea, late and light. It is cold but still pleasant enough with no sign of a winter storm on the horizon, and, not for the first time, Sylvain is glad for a chance to spend winter here, away from the blizzards that are currently blowing through Gautier. 

It is not the only reason he is glad but it is a nice little bonus.

He's squinting at his own handwriting, trying to see if there’s anything salvageable from the message when the best part of being in Galatea places two steaming mugs right on his half-assed letter. He goes to ask why Ingrid set hers down too but the question is answered in the form of her calloused fingers kneading a particularly sore spot on his neck and he's too busy groaning to say anything else.

"Good?" she asks, and Sylvain can practically hear the smirk on her face from behind him. Ingrid is not often smug but he finds that he likes it on her. It is his influence, this, he is certain of.

"Mmm," he hums in agreement, eyes shutting. He wants to say something more. Something about how this moment feels to him, wonderful and blissful, and how happy he is that she's comfortable touching him now, that it means the world to him that she's the one who reaches and lingers, but he is jelly in her hands and none of his thoughts form into anything coherent enough to say. He will tell her later, he thinks, he's trying to get better at telling her things after all. 

"Almost done?" she asks, fingers still tending to his sore neck. 

"Mm," he says, half-lazy. "Just have to rewrite this one and then I'm free."

"About that..." 

Sylvain tilts his head back so he can see her. Her hands move from his neck to his forehead as she smooths out the creases on his face from where he's furrowed his brow in confusion. She has a sheepish expression on her face, as if she's guilty of something but too amused to feel bad about it.

"Oh no," he starts, "what is it? Are there more? There can't be more! There's a storm up north, I should be free from post for at least another week right?"

Ingrid laughs. "No, there aren't more letters," she tells him, patting his shoulders. "At least not for you. From you though..."

"I sent everything out already! Well except this one." 

He gestures towards the desk to where the mugs crinkle the paper underneath. There would be no saving that particular piece of parchment. He suspects that the reason Ingrid placed the cups on top was to get him to start over, something he had been planning to do anyway.

"Don't worry, we'll split the duties for these."

He's confused again, he can't quite follow her train of thought, partly because he’s too distracted by how endearing she is when she’s in a playful mood and partly because now her arms have snaked around his shoulders and towards his chest, linking right below his heart. 

"Wedding invitations," she finally clarifies with a chuckle.

“Oh boy,” he says, but any annoyance he feigns falls apart instantly to any scrutiny because of the way his grin splits his face. He can’t stop smiling and he can’t pretend he isn’t elated by the thought of their wedding. Handmade invitations be damned. 

“But-“ she starts, “before we can even get to that. We have to plan it first.” 

Sylvain nods and turns in her arms so that he can look at her properly. He suddenly wishes he was sitting on a stool so that he could be pressed against her instead of the back of the chair.

“Yeah, I kind of...didn’t really think about that part,” he admits.

A part of him had just kind of assumed that the wedding would happen somehow, and besides, he was too busy spending time with Ingrid- exploring their new relationship with each other, learning what it means to be close to her in this way- to truly think about anything farther than every present moment with her.

“Well,” she says, “we can start with size. Would you rather a big or small wedding?”

“What do you want?” he asks automatically.

“I asked you,” She shoots back just as quickly, an annoyed look graces her face for a moment so brief that he dismisses it. 

He considers her question for a second before quickly shrugging. “Whatever you want Ingrid,” he tells her. “It doesn’t matter to me. I just want-“

“What I want, I know,” she huffs, more to herself than him. She extracts herself from him, slides her hands from his chest to cross them against hers. The warm glow of her touch lingers around him but he wishes she hadn’t stepped away. He finds that he’s always craving her touch now that he’s allowed to have it. He reaches his hand out to her in hopes that she will hold it.

“This isn’t going to work,” she tells him.

He freezes. A sudden panic sets in him. His heart drops to his stomach, he feels, suddenly, very very cold. His thoughts whirl on a mile a minute. Ingrid is standing a few steps away from him, looking at him with her arms crossed and Sylvain is trying to gauge how distraught he should be. She doesn’t look angry and she doesn’t look sad. He can’t figure out what she means. 

“What?” he croaks, mouth dry.

“It’s a partnership Sylvain,” She tells him. “You’re my partner. We don’t just do what I want to do.” 

Oxygen returns to him, Sylvain leans his elbows on his knees and breathes into his shaky hands in relief. Ingrid does not want to call off their engagement. Thank the Goddess.

“Ingrid,” his voice is strained, “you can’t just _say_ that.”

Her face is scrunched up in confusion, her arms have dropped from where she had crossed them in front of her, she’s a step closer to him than she was a second before. She hadn’t seemed to notice his previous distress although she does notice his obvious relief. “What do you mean?” she asks, cautious.

“You almost gave me a heart attack,” he tells her, looking up at her face, he tries to give her a smile but it isn’t as confident as he hoped. “This isn’t going to work?”

He watches the exact moment that her own words register on her face. She goes from careful confusion to the immediately alarmed, “OH!” She half-shouts, crouching down so that they’re at eye level, she takes his hands and pulls them away from his face, “No! Sylvain- I didn’t mean - I should have considered-“ She takes a breath and gives him a sheepish smile. "Sorry, it’s not what I meant.”

“Well I know that _now._” 

His heart is still beating a bit too fast. It is funny how quickly his mind jumps sometimes. He should have known but the reality is that it’s still just too new for him to not worry.

“I’m sorry,” she says again and her voice is sincere and warm like everything else about her.

Sylvain nods. He screws his eyes shut for a moment, waiting for his pulse to slow.

It must take too long because he can feel Ingrid’s hands cupping his face. He opens his eyes just as she leans in to give him a quick feather-light kiss to his lips. It’s to reassure him, he knows, but it does nothing to slow his pulse. He wishes that he had responded quicker, that he could have pulled her closer, pull her towards him and onto his lap so that he can kiss her the way he wants to and bury his hands into her hair and pretend that he wasn’t absolutely devastated at the thought that she might not want him. Might have changed her mind.

There will be time for that later, maybe, if he’s lucky.

“Ingrid,” he says. She’s still crouched down in front of him. He takes her hands in his. “You’re killing me.”

“What do you mean?” she asks for the second time that day.

“I think I might have gone through a hundred different emotions in a span of about thirty seconds.”

She avoids his gaze and bites her lip, embarrassed. “Sorry. I guess I’m still trying to figure this out too.”

“We can figure it out together,” he tells her firmly.

“Which brings us back to my original point.” Ingrid stands again but this time, she keeps their hands together.

“Which was?”

“That we’re a partnership Sylvain. It’s not just what I want to do or what I am doing. It goes both ways. We have to talk about what you want too.”

“I want you,” he tells her very seriously, voice quiet and soft. It is the only thing he knows he wants. There’s still a lot that he needs to sort out about his place in the post-war world but he’s shoved all of it aside for Ingrid. He doesn’t want to think about that. All it does is confuse and frustrate him. Why would he bother with it when Ingrid makes him feel so light and happy? He doesn’t want anything more than time with her.

“You have me,” She tells him, just as softly. “I’m not going anywhere. But there’s more to the world than just me.”

“Not to me.”

Ingrid sighs and he can’t tell what it means. Before, when she sighed, it would be in disappointment or frustration, but the look she gives him now is mostly fond. “That’s very sweet Sylvain and very romantic but-“

“But?” he interrupts.

“But,” she continues with a sharp warning glare at his interruption. “it’s not realistic. Or sustainable.”

“Sustainable?”

“I’m happy Sylvain. I’m very very happy but we don’t live in a bubble. I wish we did but we don’t, so we have to talk about the very real decisions we have to make about our future and that can’t be something we do just because I want it, because, if you don’t actually want it too, one of us is going to end up miserable.”

“I do want it though,” he tells her earnestly. he needs her to believe it. He squeezes her hands in hopes that she can understand all the feelings he still doesn’t know how to properly vocalize. “I’m not going to end up miserable.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I do. I know it Ingrid. I know it in my bones. I want to do what you want. I mean that.”

”Did you consider the fact that I might want to do what you want?”

He opens his mouth to say something but nothing comes out. The honest truth is that he hadn’t. He hadn’t thought much further than blindly following where she leads.

“I didn’t think so.” She sighs again, still fond, “It’s okay if you don’t know what you want but that’s why we have to figure it out together so we can come up with something _we_ want.“

Sylvain rises from his chair to pull Ingrid against him. He buries his face against her shoulder and into her neck. “How are you so good at this?” he mumbles, his lips brushing on the exposed skin of her neck.

He swears he can feel her shiver. He grins at the fact. 

“I’m not,” she whispers.

“You are,” He insists. “You are so much better at this than I am.” 

“No.” She shakes her head, pulling back from him a bit so that she can look him in the eye. “I just know what I want.”

“And what’s that?”

Her smile is soft. She wraps her arms around his neck to bend his head down towards her, and whispers against his lips, 

“A life with you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And now I’m done!  
Something just didn’t quite sit right with me with the way the last chapter ended so Ingrid kind of became a sounding board for it. I know she can seem a bit lecturey but she’s a little bit like that so I let it go.


End file.
